


modern romance

by orphan_account



Category: VIXX
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-17
Updated: 2015-07-17
Packaged: 2018-04-09 19:03:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4360733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Wonsik's standing at the back of the party with a stale cup of beer in his hands and he's wondering if Hongbin had planned on coming at all."</p>
            </blockquote>





	modern romance

He doesn't show even though he said he would, said he'd stop by at nine, but it's eleven fifty-two and Wonsik's standing at the back of the party with a stale cup of beer in his hands and he's wondering if Hongbin had planned on coming at all. There's an itch under his skin like something's crawling on him, in him, driving him mad. He has a headache that pulses behind his right eye and he thinks maybe he's dying, thinks that he wouldn't really care if he did.  
  
Hakyeon's been beside him all night, nudging his shoulder every couple minutes, asking if he's having any fun. He's in the middle of asking Wonsik if he wants another beer—' _you've been drinking that one for a while, is there anything even in there?_ '—and his voice is soft but his words are slurred and instead of bumping his shoulder against Wonsik's own, he leans his forehead, hot and sticky, against the side of Wonsik's face until Wonsik, sweating beneath his cotton t-shirt, pulls away and says he has to go.  
  
So: out into a muggy summer night with a clear sky but no moon and it's dark on the streets, cluttered with people, so many faces Wonsik doesn't know and he's scanning the crowd trying to see if maybe Hongbin's one of them but they're all strangers and he feels like an idiot for looking at all, so he drops his eyes to the sidewalk and watches his feet. Hands in his pockets, dark hair once styled now limp against his forehead, sweat trickling from his temples; his t-shirt sticks to his back and his chest feels too tight on his heart but he isn't sure if it's from the heat or not.  
  
He thinks about going home, but then thinks about the train ride there; he doesn't like taking the train this late at night. Too empty, too suffocating; all bright lights and neon signs blinding him, reminding him, that the last time he took the train this late Hongbin had been next to him with his hand on Wonsik's upper thigh, smirking. The memory makes his stomach churn so he reaches into his pocket and grabs a smoke, last one in the pack, and puts it in his mouth but doesn't light it. Chewing on the filter, soggy already, he grinds his teeth until his jaw starts to ache and sparks the lighter, but the wind blows the flame out and Wonsik lets the cigarette fall from his mouth onto the pavement and doesn't look twice at it, doesn't really care.  
  
Five foot fence, easy to get over; he hoists himself up by only his hands, and doesn't notice the bite of wood against his palms, simply claps his hands together to clean them off. Then crossing the street, small street, a neighborhood street, completely deserted, to stand in front of a house he hadn't really realized he'd been walking to all this time. Familiar dormer windows, a fireplace that's never been lit; Wonsik: standing by the front door, hand froze in mid-air with his fingers curled to his palm like he's going to knock, but he tries the knob instead, but it doesn't turn. Locked. He stands there, perplexed, looks under the flower pot by the ashtray but there isn't a spare key there, and he doesn't want to knock in case Taekwoon isn't awake. He wants company, not a fight. So: around the house to the living room window that's always left open, Wonsik kicks his shoes off and they fall in the rocks just beneath the window with a rustling sound too loud on such a quiet street. Then, crawling through the small pane, the hem of his shirt caught on a loose nail; there's the crackle of fabric stretching. It takes him a moment to unhook himself and by then Taekwoon's peeking around the kitchen corner where he stands with a mug in his hands and socks on his feet, but no expression on his face. He watches, looking very bored, as Wonsik rights himself, straightens his shirt; and for a moment, they look at each other, say nothing, until Wonsik nods and slips down the hall and into Taekwoon's room.  
  
He collapses on the bed, on his back, limbs stretched out like the five points of a star; and watching the ceiling he's reminded with a fierceness that Taekwoon had told him not to go to the party. He can hear Taekwoon padding around in the kitchen, the clatter of dishes as he must be draining his mug, washing it out; and Wonsik hopes that he won't bring him coffee or tea or anything hot and bitter because he's already hot and bitter enough, he doesn't need a drink to go along with it. But Taekwoon doesn't bring him anything, simply walks around the room like Wonsik isn't there at all: picking up loose socks on the floor, re-shelving a book that had been face-down on the nightstand, and then standing there, waiting only a minute before crawling onto the bed to sit with his legs beneath himself, not so much hovering as he is waiting.  
  
Wonsik sighs, sits up; he runs a hand through his sweaty hair starting to dry and feels a stiffness there from hairspray and gel and everything else he had used to make it look nice, make himself look presentable, because he had wanted Hongbin to see him—how long since the last time they saw each other anyway?—and wanted him to think:  _wow, I really messed up_ , but it's Wonsik who feels like he's messed up and he looks up at Taekwoon, surprised by the gentleness in his eyes, really floored by it. His bottom lip trembles just the slightest bit.  
  
Wonsik opens his mouth to say something but Taekwoon shakes his head and touches Wonsik's shoulder and doesn't say anything at all when Wonsik, feeling the tiniest pull in his chest like his heart's beating a little too quickly, falls into his side with his face buried into the front of Taekwoon's shirt. Then: relaxing, like a weight's been lifted—but they both know it's only been eased and only for this moment—as he sinks down to lay his head in Taekwoon's lap, and there he stays for a minute as Taekwoon's fingers card through his hair, pushing it off his forehead, tucking it behind his ears.  
  
'Do you wanna stay the night?' Taekwoon asks softly, twirling hair between his fingers. When Wonsik doesn't answer, he nods to himself like that's confirmation enough and reaches into the bureau a few feet away, taking out a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt Wonsik left there at least three years ago. He does all this without lifting Wonsik's head from his lap, without taking his fingers out of his hair, and for this: Wonsik's grateful.  
  
He clutches the clothes to his chest and tries to speak, but his voice cracks on the first word so he shuts his mouth and clears his throat because a lump has formed there. 'I really thought,' clearing his throat again, pulling himself up and out of Taekwoon's lap. 'I really thought he'd be there.' That's all he has to say for Taekwoon to scoot closer, crowding him, hands on either side of Wonsik's face as he nuzzles his nose to Wonsik's cheek and whispers something that sounds an awful lot like  _forget about him_ , but if Wonsik could forget about Hongbin, then wouldn't he have by now?  
  
'Were you—' he's cut off by a kiss, small and faint and barely there— 'Hyung, were you waiting up to see if I'd come?'  
  
Taekwoon doesn't answer, but Wonsik didn't think he really would. He kisses Wonsik again, this time fuller, harder, and tells him to change his clothes because the ones he has on are dirty and he doesn't want Wonsik crawling into bed with dirty clothes, he's just washed the sheets. But he's barely stepping out of his jeans and into the sweatpants—shirt discarded somewhere in the corner—when Wonsik turns and pushes Taekwoon, very gently, onto his back and shifts between his legs so that he can hear the soft sounds Taekwoon makes whenever he's touched.  
  
There's an apology at the back of his throat, sitting like a stone ready to fall out of his mouth, but he swallows it down along with his guilt because Taekwoon already knows none of this matters. They've been doing it long enough, something like three months, ever since Hongbin decided he didn't love Wonsik anymore, and Taekwoon's never complained, but there's always been a look of hurt in his eyes when Wonsik crawls through the living room window, but it's faint like a shadow, like maybe he doesn't even know it's there himself.  
  
Wonsik doesn't apologize because he's afraid if he ever did, he could never bring himself to touch Taekwoon again, so he puts his hand down the front of Taekwoon's pants instead and lets him bite his shoulder, never mind the teeth marks or the bruises Taekwoon leaves behind, because for this moment—so short and infinitesimal—they can pretend Hongbin doesn't matter, that nothing else matters at all; that morning will never come.


End file.
